Progress from the Sixth Week

by syaffolee

The end is slowly inching closer.  In any case, I will have to finish this before I leave for Winter Break.  I can’t really imagine actually doing any writing while I’m running around in Vegas searching for Elvis. (Yeah, I can hardly believe it, too.  I will be physically in Vegas.  On Saturday.)  And as of this writing, I’m semi-freaking out about getting samples ready to run in lab while I’m away and drawing the Great Nanowrimo Book Drive to a close.  I don’t know how professional fundraisers do this.  It’s frustrating, stressful, and less productive than a research paper with null results.  And on top of all of this, my computer died spectacularly for the second time this year.

Anyways, I’m planning to have pies involved in the final showdown with the villain.

Here’s a small excerpt from the stuff I’ve written in the past week (but have yet to post on my website because of the dead computer issue):

From Part IXc:

“I thought you didn’t want to lose to a gerbil,” I said as he stared at the board, contemplating the jerboa’s latest move.  The rodent was chirping smugly as if it had just figured out a strategy to crush the cyborg.  In one paw, it held a half-eaten vegetable snack as a taunt.  For some reason, I felt a little sorry for the cyborg.  His enhancements with nanobots was not going to do him any good.

“Since I figured that I wasn’t going to get to take you out to dinner, I might as well go the whole way and lose to a rodent as well,” he said.  His expression and tone didn’t change when he said that which made me unsure of whether he was joking with a deadpan voice or if he was really serious.

“Why are you still hung up on that?”

He shrugged.  “Who says that I am?”  He moved one of the chess pieces and then he grinned.  “And what if I say I was?”

I grabbed one of the chess pieces that the gerbil had checkmated already and threw it at his head.  “You idiot!  If you try to falsely play on my sympathies, I’m going to strangle you.”  It bounced and smacked Vik in the forehead before landing on the floor.  The head holographic projectionist snorted in his sleep, squirmed a little in his chair, and then yawned as he blinked his eyes.

“What was that?” Vik asked after another yawn.

“A lover’s spat ,” George said, without looking up from his program.

The cyborg shook his head.  “No, it’s Euphie’s version of foreplay.”

I threw another chess piece.  It bounced harmlessly off the cyborg and hit Vik again.


“If I had that revolver, I’d shoot you dead, bolt-bucket.”